


30 Seconds (Give or Take)

by grydo2life



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: BEWARE THE FLUFF MONSTER, Fluff, M/M, No Spoilers, ccbingo, just pointless fluff, no seriously, probably not canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-07
Updated: 2012-05-07
Packaged: 2017-11-05 00:00:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grydo2life/pseuds/grydo2life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coulson considers it. On the one hand, he has work to do and it would be highly unprofessional to abandon his position for even a moment of personal time. On the other, he’s fairly certain if he has to spend another 5 minutes in the presence of an incompetent junior agent, he’s going to strangle one of them with his tie.</p>
<p>He glances at his watch. When the second hand passes the minute mark, he fixes Clint with a level look.</p>
<p>"30 seconds."</p>
            </blockquote>





	30 Seconds (Give or Take)

**Author's Note:**

> For ccbingo Round 1: Grooming.
> 
> Most likely not canon compliant. I wouldn't know. I'm seeing the movie this afternoon. But even then I probably won't care; I generally don't follow canon in my fics _anyway_.
> 
> Also, fluff. Utterly pointless fluff without plot. One of these days I will get around to writing an actual fic _with_ plot, but today is most definitely not that day. (And, oh yeah, unbeta'd. Typos and grammatical errors abound!)
> 
> Enjoy!

There are moments when Coulson remembers fondly a time when his job was more desk work than field work. 

He doesn’t have any particular problem with field work; it’s just that the biggest selling point of his last promotion had been a distinct lack of it. Coulson had actually sort of been looking forward to the possibility of making it to retirement age without experiencing a bloody demise while surrounded by sand and death or snow and death or any kind of combination of anything and death. 

Of course, all of that had been before The Avengers; before frozen super soldiers, bored genius billionaires, and alien demi-gods.

Come to think of it, it’s probably not the desk work he misses. It’s the simplicity that comes from not having to spend his Saturday fending off an earth-shattering crisis involving a _robot_ while wrangling junior agents and giant green monsters and men in iron suits.

“Does anyone have eyes on Stark?”

“Uh…”

“For fuck’s sake, _find him_. And somebody point Hulk in the right direction; those cars are ours.”

“SMASH!”

Yes. Coulson definitely misses the simplicity. He passes over command to Sitwell and heads back towards the caravan of black SUVs that represents SHIELD’s presence on the location to check on everything else. He’s halfway there when he feels a hand on his shoulder, and then he is halfway through choking whoever it belongs to into unconsciousness when he realizes the shampoo he smells is his own.

“Clint,” he says, and lets go.

Clint coughs and touches his throat with a grimace, but still tosses out a casual grin. “Happy to see me, sir?” he quips cheerfully, and Coulson feels his lips quirk against his will.

“You’re supposed to be out in the middle of that.” He tilts his head in the general direction of the fray. In the background, Hulk lets out a ferocious roar and the sound of tearing metal can be heard. Coulson hopes it’s the robot and not, in fact, another of their vehicles. 

“Was just on my way,” Clint says, “but I had something I need to take care of first.”

That’s never a good thing to hear. “Barton…”

“Yeah yeah,” the archer waves him off and then grabs his wrist and tugs impatiently. “Just gimme 30 seconds, okay?”

Coulson considers it. On the one hand, he has work to do (he _always_ has work to do) and it would be highly unprofessional to abandon his position for even a moment of personal time. On the other, he’s fairly certain if he has to spend another 5 minutes in the presence of an incompetent junior agent, he’s going to strangle one of them with his tie. 

He glances at his watch. When the second hand passes the minute mark, he fixes Clint with a level look.

“30 seconds.”

Clint beams. “C’mere,” he says, and then he leads Coulson into a tiny alcove hidden between two buildings and an empty vehicle.

Coulson is expecting the kiss that follows, mostly light but with the slightest hint of teeth. Clint is usually fairly predictable at times like these, and really, he could think of worse things to spend 30 seconds on in the middle of a battle. 

What he’s not expecting are the deft fingers that tug his tie back into place or the way Clint pulls back so he can brush the bits of rubble and dirt from Coulson’s suit.

The archer grins, sheepish and almost shy, when Coulson fixes him with a look. “You were starting to look a little bit like a regular human for a second there, sir,” he explains with a shrug, downplaying. “Can’t have that, right?”

And this would be exactly why Coulson was willing to give up those 30 seconds to begin with.

He tips forward and presses his lips against Clint’s, and this time it’s anything but gentle and entirely too brief. When he pulls away, Clint’s breathing is wrecked and his pupils are blown and he looks far too attractive, given the circumstances.

“Get in your nest,” Coulson orders, before he has a chance to do something that will be very fun but will also get them both into a great deal of trouble.

Clint grins like he can read Coulson’s thoughts. “Yes sir,” he says and even tosses out a two-fingered salute, because he thinks he’s funny and he’s kind of an ass sometimes.

“Go, Barton.”

Clint does, but not before he leans over to sneak one last kiss. Coulson lets him with little more than an eyeroll. He feels much better now; less homicidal. The junior agents might survive yet.

(His watch read 42 seconds. He can forgive the extra 12.

Until they get home, anyway.)


End file.
